We All Want To Feel Someone Is Listening

he is already a man beyond his years
though his baby face embraces his young age
of 14
he fights desperately not to become yet another statistic
i pray statistics don't find him
i also pray he will one day catch the first thing smoking
out of there,
like the one he watches daily cross his side of town
still he will never forget his roots
will one day return to plant seeds
this i pray
he sits at the end of a long table
casually engaging in conversations around him
he knows without a doubt he is more than his peers
but still alone
because he might as well been talking in the wind
but the wind carried his words to my ears
played sweet melodies across my earlobes
before i threw open the windows to my mind
for he is a poet
struggling with this world he will have to fight daily
just because he was born a beautiful black child
just because his favorite artist at this age is Thelonious Monk
just because he carries a pen, a folder with dog-eared looseleaf paper,
and all of his written work with him everywhere he goes
just because he said to me slightly above a whisper,
"I really appreciate your work, its hard out here for a black man like myself..."
he held his head down...
"and if you haven't noticed, no one really wants to listen to me"
i fought back tears,
the way he looked at me convinced me he saw them anyway
"baby, i do. i hear you. you matter more than you will ever know. don't ever stop writing. i will keep your words within my mind for safekeeping...until we meet again."
he cocked his head to the side, and smiled
we were instantly connected through time
held conversations in ancient languages without a word spoken
recited poetry written with charcoal tipped sticks on cavern walls
between a smile and an understanding
he watched me closely as i left
and i watched him sit a lil straighter
he pulled his pen out from behind his ear
began to write again
as if his life depended on it.
...i guess it does

i told a tree outside...
" you better bow when he walks by"